Dialogue
by sammispn226
Summary: The story of how Sam and Dean met their long-lost sister, as told in conversations. Drabbles, written almost exclusively in dialogue. Rated T for language. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

**The story of how Sam and Dean met their long-lost sister, as told in conversations.**

**[Drabbles, written almost exclusively in dialogue. Rated T for language. Gen.]**

**

* * *

**

"Could you give us your parents' names, please?"

I looked at them strangely. "Why?" I asked bluntly.

"We just need verification," replied the one with long hair (surprisingly long for an FBI agent).

I gave him a blank stare. "Yeah. I actually figured that part out. What I meant was, _why_ do you need verification? What the hell do my parents have to do with this? I don't even know what _I_ have to do with this, for chr-" don't swear. Be nice.

The long-haired FBI agent's (what's his name again?) eyes became rounder and softer. "We understand this is a lot to take in at once," he (Morrison, Agent Morrison) said. "But with your help, we can catch this guy before he does any more harm."

"_Harm?_" My voice was sharp and strident (caution. Stay calm. Apologize for your lack of composure). "Sorry." I tried to throw them a small smile. "I guess there's just something…invasive…about a serial killer attack in your own apartment building."

The one on the right, shorter of hair and of stature than his partner, watched me quietly. He hadn't said a word since he introduced himself (ah, crap. Now what's this one's name again?).

Whatever. Just send 'em on their way, Sarah (it's not like you need law enforcement interested in you, anyway). I took a breath. "Okay. My mother was Lonnman, Carol."

"Alright," Morrison said, nodding and writing it down in his notebook (cheap, battered, kind of memo pad you can buy at a drug store. Is that FBI standard?). Oh, shut it. What the hell would you know about the FBI's choice of notebooks?

"And father?" He looked up expectantly.

"Winchester," I said. "John."


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

"Hey, Sarah!" Jack called as soon as he spotted me. He made his way across the diner and slid right in next to me (Christ, do you have manners, dude?) at the booth.

"Oh – hey, man," I said, glancing at Sam and Dean across from me. "Um – listen – this isn't a good time, dude–"

"Why not? How're you doin'? You goin' to Dylan's Friday? Heard he was gonna try that _absinthe_ shit. I'm gonna try it, too – you down?" Jack reached across the table and snatched a few fries off Dean's plate, scarfing them down as he spoke (what was it that I said about manners?). Dean raised his eyebrows and gave him a cool stare, but Jack didn't notice, being totally focused on me. His left arm had come up to rest on the seatback behind us. Out of the corner of my eye I saw both Dean and Sam take note of that.

"Uh." I started. "Jack. Listen. Now's really not a good time. How 'bout I just talk to you later, okay?"

"Why?" He finally gave Sam and Dean a sparing glance. "Who are these guys?"

"We're her brothers. Jack_._" Dean said, eyebrows raising again. "Who the hell are you?" Sam shot his brother an exasperated sort of look, but didn't speak.

"Dude." I broke in. "I'll talk to you later. Okay?" I tried to sound firm, and gave him a small smile as he got up and left, confusion on his face. The three of us watched him go before I turned back to…my brothers.

"So," Dean said, conversationally. "Friendly with the guys around here?"

I quirked an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

"So enough about us," Dean said. "Tell us about you."

I frowned. "Mm…not much to tell. Not – uh. Not like you guys," I glanced at them apologetically (oh, god, are you _trying_ to make this as awkward as possible?).

I jerked my gaze up to a point above their heads (just make it brief, Sarah, it's not like they want to hear your life story). "My mom died when I was a kid. I grew up in foster homes all over northern Missouri, mostly around St. Louis. Finally became an emancipated teen a few years ago, graduated high school, started working, and…here I am." I shrugged.

"What about-" Sam hesitated. "Dad." All three of us kept hesitating to call him that, as if meeting other people who used that name for him had lessened our own right to use it.

"No," I said quietly, looking down at my tiny kitchen table. "I never knew him, never met him…" I looked up at them and shrugged. "He must not have known about me."

Sam looked sympathetic; Dean looked at the table.

"Sarah…" Sam adopted an apologetic, reluctant sort of look (I bet he's the one who informs people of the deaths of loved ones, isn't he?). "We have a journal of our Dad's. There are some entries that suggest he was in Missouri at some significant times – like after your mother died, or for one or two of your birthdays."

I frowned for a moment (is it possible-? no. No, it isn't.), then shook my head. "Nah. He must not have known about me. Otherwise he would have come to say hello, right?"

The two exchanged a lightning-quick glance, as they often did. "Yeah." Sam said.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

"Hey! I know him," I said, snatching a worn picture from the pages of the journal Sam was flipping through.

Sam shot me a look, annoyed at my grabby fingers. "What?"

"I know this guy," I repeated, flipping the picture around to show it to him. His face changed subtly when he saw it.

"What do you mean?"

"I _mean_, this is Jim Warrick. He worked with Child Services back in St. Louis. He came to check up on me in some of my foster homes; he was a pretty cool guy," I kept my tone light. "Why do you have a picture of him?"

I frowned (shit, why _would_ they have a picture of him?); my tone fell from curiosity to concern. "He's not involved in any bad shit, is he? He was ni– pretty cool."

Sam looked at the picture, his face quiet. "Sarah…" his voice was low and soft. "That's Dad."

I stared at him. My chest tightened suddenly like a monkey wrench had encircled it and someone had just spun the wheel. Breathe (pause) breathe (pause) bre- _no. _There is _no fucking way_ that my father could see me in person, could come visit me, and not take me away from those fucking – breathe (pause) breathe-

Sam reached one hand out to me softly. "Sarah…"

I stood up from the motel room table in a jerky movement, forcing the chair back with a loud _skreek_ that didn't seem to reach my ears. Breathe (pause) breathe –

I circled around Sam to get to the motel room door (making sure we didn't touch in any way).

"Excuse me," I forced out in a whisper as I passed my brother.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

"EMF?" Sam asked, curiosity covering his face.

The nerd on the right, Ed, shot him an exasperated look. "Electromagnetic frequency?" he said in an unmistakable 'duh' sort of tone. I caught Sam's flicker of a smile as the boy turned away from him.

I stepped closer to follow the self-proclaimed professional ghosthunter. "Coooool," I said, my eyes widening a tad. "So what does that thing do?" I gesturing to the device, which looked like a prop from a low-budget scifi TV show.

Ed turned to look at me with slight surprise; the other one, Harry, did too. "It measures the EMF in the area. You can pick up every frequency within a ten-yard radius on this bad boy." He sounded like a farmer stretching out his suspenders with his thumbs as he bragged about his bountiful crops.

I looked at him with shining eyes. "Awesome." I turned a little, including Harry in my glance (shit, how long has it been since I actually hit on a guy?). "Is all your guys' equipment this high-tech? It must be hard to work with." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Dean bend down to study a symbol on the wall.

"Yeah," Harry scoffed. "We've got the latest technology in high-frequency video recording completely hooked up in our van. We have it wired to infrared cameras so we can actually catch ghosts on tape."

I looked at the two of them and waited a beat, letting an air of privacy surround our conversation. "Have you ever caught anything?" My voice was a little quieter and lower than it usually is, the way I would ask a child 'want to know a secret?'

Sam and Dean slipped quietly through a door in the far wall.

* * *

**(Episode AU for Hell House, if you didn't get that.)**


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

I turned my head, looking at Dean out of the corner of my eye as he stood beside me at the porch rail. It was the first movement either of us had made since he came outside to join me fifteen minutes ago. I let my gaze drift back to the speckle of stars pasted far above my head.

He shifted to lean more of his weight on the rail, but otherwise didn't respond. His quietness seemed respectful to me and reverential to our surroundings. There's something about being outside at night that makes you quiet and introspective. At least, that's how I'd been, for however long I'd been standing out there, watching bullets sink into human flesh and feeling the kick of a fired gun in my palms.

A sigh escaped me and drifted over the porch rail into the darkness. I knew Dean's eyes moved toward me, even though I didn't see them. There was a slight shushing sound from his leather jacket as he shifted again, the movement causing his arm to rest against mine. After a moment, I leaned into him so that we each held a tiny bit of the other's weight.

We stayed like that for another few minutes, our eyes fixed on the stars. My mind's eye continued replaying the kill I'd made that day, over and over, projected in front of me onto the expanse of black sky. A light breeze brushed across us from the right, making the nighttime cold a little colder. I didn't notice.

After a while Dean straightened and shuffled into the well-lit motel room behind us. I gave one last, long look to the stars above me before following him inside.

* * *

**I don't usually do author's notes in this story, but I have a question for you guys: Did you understand that this was a wordless conversation, and that I hadn't outright abandoned my conversation theme? I wasn't sure if that came through. If you review, could you please let me know? Thank you!**


	7. Chapter 7

"Mother_fucker_!"

"Sorry," Sam looked at me, chagrined.

I drew a ragged breath. "No problem." I took shallow breaths in a vain attempt to avoid the flashing pain that came of irritating a stomach wound. I felt tears spring to my eyes and – oh Jesus, Sarah, don't _cry_, for fuck's sake (and a memory, a worried young black woman saying _don't cry, hon, don't cry,_ but I cut off that thought like swiping a razor blade across a photograph).

"You alright?" Sam sounded worried.

"Yeah," I bit out in a rough growl that sounded like Dean (and that's not a good sign, is it?).

"Just a little farther. We've got some industrial-strength painkillers for situations like this." He smiled a little, trying to lighten up the situation.

I didn't respond. It hurt too fucking much.

And that reminds me, holy fucking _shit_, my stomach hurts. "Unhhhh, fuckerfuckerfucker." Like that video. Badgerbadgerbadgerbadger-

"Fuckerfuckerfuckerfucker-"

"_Sarah._"

"Huh?"

"Just – stay calm. Okay? We're almost…" I stopped listening to Sam, preferring to wallow in my pain. I wondered if this was what my mom felt like.

"What?"

I stopped short, Sam halting with me. "What?"

He looked confused. "You said something about your mom feeling like this."

_Shit_. I responded with an unintelligible grunt, facing forward and starting resuming my forward stagger.

He followed, looked at me closely. "I thought your mom died when you were little."

Keep moving; stare straight ahead. "She did."

He kept staring at me (examining me. Shit.). I could see him working out which angle to come at me from. "Do you remember her?"

"Stop, Sam," I said quietly, my eyes on the path ahead (and the Dean-grunt is back, eh?). And left it at that.


End file.
